The Hunted

25

Court reconvened at ten o'clock in the morning on the second. Elena had driven herself and parked in the underground INS garage. She was dressed not in orange but in a modest dark blue frock that complemented her beauty, her blonde hair, her slim figure. She sat directly behind Alex, who was in his usual orange jumpsuit. They exchanged quiet whispers and handwritten notes while they waited for the festivities to begin. Alex had been permitted to shower and shave this time-though only after MP threatened his jailers with a noisy lawsuit for deprivation of dignity.

Kim Parrish sat at her table with the same youthful assistant perched anxiously to her right. Piles of paper along with several large boxes were stacked off to the side.

MP had offered her a warm, friendly greeting when they entered. She met it with stony indifference. She was openly furious with him over that nasty, rotten, one-sided Times article-earlier in the week, Agent Wilson had confided to her how MP had called in a favor from the Times reporter and arranged her public thrashing. She could barely stand to be in the same room with him.

As before, Judge John Everston entered punctually through a side door, hustling along, anxious to begin. He studied his court again. No reporters this time. None of Tromble's punks, either, he noted with satisfaction-nobody but a plump, middle-aged, long-haired fellow in the visitors' section who was sipping noisily through a straw stuck in a Diet Coke.

"Who are you, sir?" His Honor asked.

"An author," the man replied in an almost indifferent manner. "I'm halfway into a legal thriller that involves a few immigration matters. Saw this case mentioned in the Times. Thought I'd pop in and pick up a little authentic juice."

The man looked seedy, wildly disorganized, and poorly groomed. His threadbare blue blazer bore long streaks of mustard stain, and he was vigorously scratching his fanny. Sure looked like a writer.

When the judge did not throw him out, the man quickly settled his ample rear back into his seat. He dug a notebook out of a side pocket and loudly flicked his pen open. On the frames of his glasses were two miniature cameras. Tucked in his breast pocket, a highly sensitive microphone was capturing every word. In a small office two floors above, three federal agents were huddled before video screens, watching and listening to the proceedings with great amusement.

Agent Wilson laughed, slapped a thigh, and bellowed, "Hah, you old bastard, who's the smart one now?"

With his usual judicial efficiency, His Honor cut right to the chase. "Mr. Jones, we left off with your assessment that you needed two more weeks to prepare your defense. Are you ready?"

"I believe I am, Your Honor. But as there is no requirement for discovery in immigration code, I reserve the right to hear what the prosecution presents."

This reference was to the requirement in criminal trials for the prosecution and defense to share advance notice about evidence and witnesses they intend to present. There was no such obligation in immigration court. MP's retort was old hat. The judge nodded accordingly. He shifted his attention to the prosecutor. "Miss Parrish, make your case."

Without hesitation she said, "We'll open with the government claim that Mr. Konevitch lied to the immigration board about his place of employment."

She nodded at her young assistant. He apparently had another impressive purpose than being the meek target of blame for things gone wrong. He hefted up a number of documents and hauled them to the bench.

Miss Parrish said, "I'm providing annotated transcripts from the statement made by Mr. and Mrs. Konevitch to an immigration panel on April 15, to wit, they both were employed by a company supposedly established in Austria. The company so named is Orangutan Media."

Judge Everston licked his fingers and began noisily thumbing through the documents. "Go on."

"You'll also note three statements signed by Russia's attorney general, Anatoli Fyodorev. They detail several investigations by Russian federal investigators into the true activities of Orangutan Media. The-"

MP quickly interrupted. "Your Honor, we have not seen those statements."

"And you already established that, Mr. Jones."

"Yes, and surely it won't hurt to remind the court that my client came to America as a result of political persecution. The same government that provided those statements wishes him dead."

"Then you believe these statements to be false?"

"I haven't seen them."

"Well, they're in Russian. Can't read them myself. But let's assume, momentarily, that Miss Parrish is telling the truth. That's a reasonable assumption, is it not, Miss Parrish?"

"It is."

"Mr. Jones? Is Russia's attorney general lying?"

"Probably. I'll withhold judgment for now."

The prosecutor flipped a quick sideways smile at MP. She wasn't through, and he definitely wasn't going to like her next move. Too bad your hack reporter friend's not here to see you gag and choke, she wanted to tell him. Her errand boy hauled a few more papers up to the judge. "Your Honor, these are sworn statements from employees of Orangutan Media. They confirm the nature of the company's criminal activities. Please note the top statement."

"So noted. What is it?"

"A confession signed by Illya Mechoukov."

MP had never heard the name so he glanced over at his client. Alex's mouth hung open. He appeared to be in shock. He was massaging his forehead, openly pained.

MP bent over and scribbled a brief, questioning note to Alex.

"And who would he be?" the judge was asking.

"Mr. Mechoukov is the CEO of Orangutan Media. Again, it's in Russian, but he details not only the company's connections to money laundering for a notorious criminal syndicate but, more specifically, Mr. Konevitch's direct role in the nefarious activities."

Alex furiously scribbled a note back to MP. "Ask if the FBI was present," it said with a large exclamation point.

The judge was shuffling through several papers. "And the rest of these statements, who are they from?"

"More employees of said company. They all verify or expand upon the statement provided by Mechoukov."

"And how did you come upon these materials?" MP asked from the side.

She paused at this question, but only briefly. "They were given to me by the FBI."

"The FBI's a large organization. Who exactly, in the FBI?"

"I don't believe this is relevant, Your Honor."

"Should I give you my robes, Miss Parrish? Mr. Jones's question is quite relevant. This might only be immigration court, but the rules pertaining to chain of evidence remain in force. So long as you're making up my mind for me, you might as well look the part."

"Does your paycheck come with it?" She smiled briefly-a stupid mistake, one she immediately regretted.

His Honor did not smile back. "Miss Parrish, who in the FBI?"

"Agent Wilson."

"The same fellow who was present in this court two weeks ago?"

"I believe so."

"You believe so?"

"It is… was… whatever."

MP quickly interjected. "Did the FBI directly interview these people?"

"I… I believe so."

His Honor scratched his chin and asked, "Then where inside this arsenal of material are the statements by these agents?"

"If they were only observers, that wouldn't be necessary," she shot back.

"I asked if they took these statements, Your Honor," MP snapped.

"I heard what he asked," Parrish answered.

"I would like an unqualified response. Yes or no? They took the statements or they did not. They were present for the interrogations or were not," MP demanded, peering sideways at the judge. "Your Honor, if the FBI was present in any capacity, I request the names of the agents involved. Further, I'd like them to be deposed to confirm the authenticity of those statements."

In a room two floors above, Agent Wilson was loudly cursing. He drove a fist into a desk and instantly regretted it. It felt like he broke at least two knuckles. He hated lawyers. Such smartasses.

"It's not relevant," Parrish insisted, clearly rattled, and trying to squirm out of this line of inquiry. "The statements were taken by Russian law enforcement authorities. We should extend them the same trust and legal latitudes we afford our own police."

It was her first real mistake, and it was a whopper.

MP launched out of his chair; he was hell-bent to make her pay dearly for it. Directing a finger at her, he said, "Miss Parrish, are you telling this court that Russia's police are as credible as our own?"

She had said it, and it was too late to back away. "Yes."

"Have you ever heard of gulags, kangaroo courts, Solzhenitsyn, purges, Potemkin villages, Stalin, the Cold War, show trials-"

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," the judge burst in. "You made your point."

MP relaxed. "Thank you, Your Honor. I was starting to bore myself." He brushed a hand through his hair and shook his head.

It was a sly dig, skillfully delivered. Even His Honor cracked a hint of a smile.

A large scowl was on Parrish's face. She knew full well she had said something pathetically stupid. And she knew, equally well, that she had no choice but to breaststroke in quicksand. "I have no idea what Mr. Jones is saying. Nor does it sound at all relevant."

"Well, she might be the only person in the world confused about this," MP said with a nasty smile. "So let me clear it up. I'm saying the Russian police frequently use tactics that are abhorrent. They torture witnesses, employ blackmail and coercion, are notoriously dishonest, and sometimes even forge documents. If Mrs. Parrish is so naive as to not be aware of this, I will gladly call in dozens of expert witnesses from the CIA and State Department to educate her. Or I can locate thousands of U.S. citizens who were granted political asylum-by her own department, I might add-after Russian police brutally tortured them and their families."

His Honor asked very nicely, "Miss Parrish, will that be necessary or will you simply concede this point?"

Parrish spent a moment grinding her fingernails into her palms. Was this a jury trial the damage would be enormous, possibly insurmountable. Fortunately it was an immigration case in an immigration court with an immigration judge. The rules were different.

She drew a few deep breaths, then tried gamely to repair the damage. "The prosecution is willing to concede that Russian legal authorities might occasionally employ a little excess vigor in the pursuit of justice."

Alex mentioned to MP, very loudly, "She means they rip fingernails out of innocent people and force them to sign untrue statements."

"I can interpret her words without your help," the judge said with a mildly aggravated expression. "Now sit down, Mr. Jones."

MP sat.

The judge removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes for a moment. Eventually he said to the prosecutor, "Can you produce any FBI agents who witnessed these interrogations?"

"No."

He turned to MP. "Can you produce witnesses or evidence that these statements are tainted or were forced?"

"I haven't been given the opportunity. They were sprung on us only five minutes ago. My client vehemently denies them. We would request the time to track down the signatories to interview them directly."

His Honor swiveled his neck back to the prosecutor. "I hope you have other evidence or substantiation."

This time her young lackey hauled two enormous cardboard boxes up to the bench. They overflowed with paper. Parrish allowed the judge a moment to peek over the lids and witness the massive volume of material. It would take at least a month to read it all.

"Your Honor, these are newspaper and magazine clippings collected and translated by our Foreign Service concerning Mr. Konevitch's considerable criminal activities in Russia."

Alex began scribbling more furious notes for MP. Parrish prattled on, describing the depth, complexity, and utter depravity of Alex's schemes and crimes. She referred to her notes frequently. She quoted freely from several of the more damning articles. About the abhorrent nature of Konevitch's crimes. Choice tidbits about the people this Russian mountebank harmed through his crookedness. The bankrupted investors who trusted him and were ruined. The thousands of employees laid off after he fled. The shock to the entire Russian business world and its incipient stock market. She requested that the accounts be entered into the record. MP scrawled a few questions. Alex dashed off hurried replies.

The moment she finished, MP observed, "I believe the prosecutor is aware of our contention that Mr. Konevitch was framed for these crimes."

"It's a common alibi from guilty criminals," Parrish replied dismissively.

"You doubt his word?" MP asked, slightly incredulous.

"Of course I do. Mr. Konevitch is listed number one on Russia's most wanted list. The Russian attorney general has issued a warrant for his arrest. The news stories in those boxes confirm everything he did, that he's now claiming he didn't do. I believe he is outnumbered."

MP turned to the judge. "I don't believe I've ever heard of a case where newspaper articles were introduced as evidence."

The judge was interested in where MP was going with this. "Nor I. On the other hand, I'm inclined to accept her claim that the articles add a certain level of verification to the government claims."

MP smiled at His Honor and said, "Could I have a little latitude to explore this issue?"

"A very little, Mr. Jones."

He turned and faced Parrish. "Did you read the New York Times article published two weeks ago regarding this trial?"

"I may have."

"Would you like me to read it to you? I have a copy."

"No. I read it."

"All of it?"

"I just said I did. Every stupid word."

MP picked up the article from the table and waved it around for the judge to see. "Here's my favorite part," he said, smiling broadly. He read loudly and proudly, "Quote, 'This case is a travesty of injustice, a railroad, and the prosecutor is the chief engineer driving a train of lies and deceit,' remarked an anonymous source. 'If Konevitch is returned to Russia, he'll be murdered. His blood will be on the prosecutor's hands as surely as if she killed him herself.' End quote." MP smiled nicely at the court reporter. "Sally, please enter that into the record. Especially that literary part about driving the train of lies and deceit. I really like that line."

Parrish launched out of her chair. "I protest, Your Honor," she yelled, red-faced. "That obvious smear has no business being entered into the record."

His Honor briefly considered an intervention. There was no question about it; she was right, it definitely was a bald-faced smear. On the other hand, she was asking to have press clippings entered into evidence. Whether she liked it or not, she had given the defense attorney the opening to explore the issue: if he chose to crash through it in a Mack truck she had no complaint.

And frankly, such testy exchanges were rare for an immigration hearing. He pushed his chair back, folded his hands behind his head, and watched the interplay with huge enjoyment.

"Why not?" MP snapped back at her. "Didn't you agree with it?"

"I did not."

"Oh, come on, Miss Parrish. It was a great article. Well-reasoned, finely balanced."

"It was a shameful, slanted, slanderous piece of garbage, Mr. Jones. And you know it. It was too obvious the reporter was an old college friend of yours. She made no effort to get the government's side. Her behavior verges on professional misconduct."

For the briefest moment, MP paused. How did she know about their old college relationship? There was only one way she could, and MP pondered that ugly thought before he recovered his senses and pushed on.

"Then sue her," he snapped, struggling to keep his cool. How long had his phones been tapped? Who was listening in? How much had he divulged?

"I might sue you instead. You and I both know you provided that despicable quote."

"Fine. Sue me, then. I dare you." He waved the article like a matador with a red cape.

"I would love to. If it wasn't impossible to prove, I would take everything you own."

"Spare me the empty threats. Any lawyer worth their salt would end up owning the New York Times and shoving me into the poorhouse."

"Don't you dare patronize me. She'll hide behind the First Amendment. And you'll lie for all it's worth."

On a dime, MP was suddenly all warmth and compassion. He balled up the article and threw it on the floor. "You know what? I agree with you, Miss Parrish. What can be worse than being smeared and maligned by lies in the press? To have your reputation unfairly dragged through the mud? If a lawyer like you has no realistic recourse, what chance does a simple citizen have? He can sue, but what chance does he have? He can say it's all lies, but who'll believe him? Anonymous sources leak all the lying filth they want. The juicier the lie, the more quickly it spreads, picked up by one paper after another until it becomes an avalanche of lies. The more outrageous the lie, the more ink it captures, the more it's guaranteed to hit the front page, then another front page, then a magazine cover, and then… Well, it's all just so sad."

The constant use of "he" left no doubt he wasn't talking about her. Alex suddenly thrust a note into MP's hand. It read, "Ask if her bosses requested a team of Russian prosecutors to come here and prove the case." He read it, had no idea what Alex was talking about, or where this was coming from, but Alex had nailed it on the head about the FBI and Orangutan Media. He nodded.

Parrish decided she hated MP Jones. She had known exactly what he was doing from the beginning. It had just been impossible to ignore or deflect his assault in a casual manner. He had shoved her into a corner and forced her to battle her way out.

But at least he was finished, she thought with grim satisfaction. In fact, MP was just getting warmed up.

He said to the judge, "Your Honor, since Miss Parrish has asked to enter these news articles into evidence, I would like you to ask her, on the record, if she believes every word to be true and accurate. Is she confident these stories represent the truth?"

His Honor pondered this weighty request for a second. Was it fair and reasonable? Well, it was her idea to enter all this media rubbish into evidence. "Miss Parrish, for the record, do you believe these articles to be true and accurate?"

For a moment she froze. In a thoughtful, halting voice, she eventually replied, "I won't attest for every word or every statement in every article. In general, though, yes, the articles convey… well, a fairly accurate portrayal of Konevitch's deplorable activities and actions." A perfect response. She was proud of her answer, so carefully measured, so finely hedged. She was glad MP gave her the opening. He had lobbed her the perfect softball to repair the damage she had already inflicted upon herself.

MP said, very carefully also, "Your Honor, could you please ask the prosecutor if it's true Russia's attorney general is dispatching a prosecutorial team here to share evidence of Mr. Konevitch's activities with her legal department?"

Parrish's mouth suddenly went dry. She had been informed of this news only two days before. A precautionary move, she was told, in the event this judge got stupid and produced an outrageous decision. It was confided to her in the strictest confidence. How did Jones learn about it? Who leaked it? How damaging was this? How much did he know? A hundred unanswered questions pinged around her brain.

"Miss Parrish?"

She had no choice but to answer truthfully. "Yes."

"Please ask her why the need for such a team?" MP asked, uncertain how Alex learned this little tidbit, but pushing the point for all it was worth.

"It wasn't my decision. I don't know," she replied, trying to get off the hook.

"Not your decision?" His Honor asked incredulously.

She replied lamely, "It was a departmental decision."

MP went for the kill. "Your Honor, please ask her the basis of this decision."

His Honor was already kneading his temples. "Good idea. Why, Miss Parrish?"

"I have no idea."

Once again, MP generously came to her aid. "If it pleases the court, I'd like to help my colleague clear up this mystery."

"It might not please her. It would damn well please me, though," the judge replied, shoving aside his decorum. He was sorely tempted to cite her for contempt. He had caught her lying several times. Her credibility was in shambles. Now he questioned her sanity.

Speaking with all the confidence he could muster, MP claimed, "It's obvious her own service has doubts about the outlandish claims made in the Russian press about my client. As for her faith in Russia's attorney general, it's obvious her superiors feel otherwise. They asked the Russians to come over here to prove their case."

"Is this true?" Judge Everston asked her with a look that nearly peeled the skin from her face.

She toyed with a thousand responses she could give him. Yes, it was true. And also deliberately taken out of context. No, she better not say that, she promptly decided; Jones would demand to know the right context. The right context was the FBI director and attorney general wanted this Russian couple expelled, no matter what.

She hated this case. It was rammed down her throat at the last minute, accompanied by dozens of vile threats if she flopped. But her job was to represent the interests of the United States government as best she could.

"I have no idea," she snapped spitefully, wondering what her superiors would say when they read the transcript.

"I am placing this case in abeyance," the judge snapped. He looked long and hard at Kim Parrish. If stares had weight, she'd be crushed under a hundred tons of barely controlled fury. "This might be the shoddiest case I've ever had the displeasure to observe. I am not happy, Miss Parrish. You've asked me to pull the trigger for immediate deportation when the gun's not even loaded."

She summoned the last tiny bit of her courage. "The government requests that Mr. Konevitch remain in custody until we ascertain the full validity of Russia's claim."

The judge reeled back and pretended to be shocked. "Miss Parrish, do you recall the warning I issued two weeks ago?"

"I do, Your Honor."

"And now you're asking me to approve indefinite imprisonment while you sort out whether Mr. Konevitch is guilty of crimes back in Russia?"

"I didn't say indefinite. We'll move this as fast as we can and notify the court the moment we're prepared."

"And when might that be?"

"A few months at worst. Possibly weeks." She didn't have a clue.

"Mr. Jones?"

Predictably, MP looked like a jackhammer was pulverizing his big toe. "It is grossly unfair for my client to remain in custody because the government arrested him on such spurious grounds. It's outrageous and-"

Parrish cut him off. "The alternative is that we release a possible criminal to escape his crimes, and possibly sin again. He has the resources, and he has fled before. As the huge volume of news accounts attest, Mr. Konevitch is an infamous fugitive in Russia. A celebrity thief. His case is being monitored closely by Russia's highest leaders and by his own people. Russia has made clear that the handling of this case will merit a strong reciprocal response. Thousands of American citizens are in Russia. They're at risk. We recognize and apologize for any inconvenience this causes Mr. Konevitch. But we emphasize the needs of the state over his personal comfort."

The slew of news stories in the boxes two feet from the judge's long nose suddenly weighed ten legal tons. The judge stared at the boxes that attested very clearly to Konevitch's infamy in Russia. For once, she had a good point.

His Honor removed his glasses and leaned forward. "With considerable reluctance, I'll approve this request, until this thing gets sorted out."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

"Oh, don't thank me, Miss Parrish. But do listen closely. I want Mr. Konevitch transferred to a federal facility. Get him out of that nasty holding cell."

"I understand."

"Find him a nice, comfortable place. I want him not overly taxed by our obvious inefficiency. Is this clear?"

"You have my word."

He bent far forward. "One of those country clubs with tennis courts, big-screen TVs hooked to satellites, and all the good food he can stand. A nice, white-collar environment without walls or barbed wire, where the worst lowlife in there is a tax cheat."

"I understand."

"The next time I see Mr. Konevitch I want him fat and tanned. He better be bored with gardening, and listening to all those fatcat Wall Street lizards brag about their schemes."

"You have my word."

"I protest," MP said.

"Of course you do," His Honor said quickly, as he lunged out of his seat and fled from his own court.